Contradict
by Dawn96
Summary: Eric is purged by nerve-wrecking thoughts concerning his partner.


_AN: I've never thought I'd actually write a story about this game... but here I am... It came to my mind and I had to let it out. Enjoy and Review :)_

**Contradict**

If there was anything he could use to describe his coworker, it was _different_.

She was small, dark haired and little, her small fingers looking like tiny needles as they rapidly typed on little keys. Her eyes would flutter and blink away her worries with a smile that was omnipresent on her pale, pretty face.

Pretty… face?

He flinched, running his finger down the scalpel that lay by the desk, feeling the familiar coldness creep into his skin. It a second, he could have it wrapped with wet plaster, caressing the pretty cheeks of her pretty face-

He tightened his fist and let a low hiss- he had to keep control. He couldn't lose it.

However, he felt something in him pulse- something in him wrap around his heart. He never found an urge to make a mask from her face- never wanted to feel her paralyzed and stiff his arms- never wanted to let his thumbs push against her windpipe, see her eyes bulge and widen- never wanted to feel her spasm and shudder as he would clog her nose with plaster-

He shut his eyes, rubbing his temple.

No…

She was _different_.

If anything… he felt his urge faded and his purpose- his _art _- nonexistent. Sometimes, he felt that he was simply the forensic specialist at the S.F.P.D with his short, pixie-like coworker as a partner, and that was it.

It was times like those, when they'd have a low work press on their backs and a relaxed pace of research where he had to tie his tongue to stop himself from spilling out anything- _everything_- about him. His reasons… confused him. It was never about him being found out- it was never about _himself_ being jailed or thrown into another _damned_ mental institute. It was about _her_.

What would she think of him?

But… he was artist. The Connoisseur said it herself- honed him and encouraged him. This urge in him was his art- his beauty- his talent. He could sculpt out of any face the true features…

But the doctors used to say it was wrong.

The doctors…

They said it was wrong.

But the Connoisseur said it was right.

He gripped his temples, his fingers fumbling for something- _anything_- to shake these thoughts out. This could not be happening now- he needed a hammer to just bash his head to oblivion.

_Stain_

He felt twitches above his eyebrow and cheek and a pierce as sharp as a poison arrow just dip into his brain.

He was an artist- he was- he was an artist-

But the girls died.

Many people died.

Not a single one of them was Rebecca.

With a sharp blow, he cleared the entire table with his bleeding hand, his teeth grinding against one another that he could taste the filing on his tongue and feel _terrible_ shivers running up his spine. The crashing of the test tubes resounded cacophonous chaos that shocked his mind out of his plunging reverie. Snapping his eyes open, nothing but damaged equipments lay at his feed and sharp cuts ran down his palm.

"Eric! Are you alright- what happened?"

He locked eyes with Amy who suddenly stopped the moment she looked at him.

Feeling the tension, he looked away and tried to tone down his unease and step behind his usual mask of indifference. He breathed heavily.

"I…"

What excuse was there to someone crashing the whole table of equipment?

"I…"

"You're bleeding."

"I know."

"Well, what are you standing there for!" she gripped his hand with her small, featherlike ones, and led him out of the lab.

He jerked away, feeling a trembling on his fingers. She turned, looking at him with concern that he had never seen bestowed on him. He was purged with sickened looks and pity from other people… but never concern. No one ever cared what happened to a killer.

The blood on his hands- they _stained_- they were like the blood that spewed gurgling out of _her_ head.

He stepped back.

If he knew he was a killer, then why'd he continue doing it?

He was an artist- it was an art. He was doing those girls a favour.

But _he_ was the one that felt the urge to carve out their faces.

"Eric-"

"Stop-" it sounded harsh and snappish even to his own ears.

"Are you sick?"

Her tone was innocent-

_You're sick. You're a stain._

That what _she_ used to say. That's what he knew about himself. He killed her- he pressed his fingers around her throat, felt her spasm and jerk under his muscles… and he relived it every time. He was a stain- he was terrible- it was all his fault.

All his fault.

"I'm sick."

_I'm a stain. I'm sick. I'm disgusting-_

But it was always _her_. She used to slap him- she used to hiss at him, confine him, torture him. She used to make him wear that mask- it was all her- it wasn't his fault- he wasn't- it wasn't-

"It's not my fault…" he felt the whisper grate his throat. "I just… I don't want-"

The doctors said it was wrong.

But the Connoisseur said it was right.

But… he wanted to stop- he wanted- he wanted the pixie-like, feathery girl to not get scared when she'd know who was behind the killings, behind the masks, behind everything.

He was still a stain.

He was a monster- he killed so many-

And he'd kill even more.

He felt his back bump against the desk behind him and his eyes were tightly shut to show him nothing but darkness. It was only when he opened them lightly- only when he felt a slight pressure on his chest- that he was pulled out his darkening thoughts that were purging him through to the core.

Her shot hair was so black- not at all like _that_ colour- and she was so small and skinny. He could feel her collar bone against his chest and her little fingers with her delicate bones around his shoulders in a light, airy embrace.

She was _different_.

For a moment- for those small, significant moments- he forgot about everything. Forgot about his urge to carve out their true faces, forgot about the scalpels, the syringe and the plaster, forgot about the large mansion with his trophies lining the walls, forgot about the holes in the mental prison, forgot about the pier, forgot about the attic, forgot about _everything_.

Like a wipe had cleansed the tightened madness in his heart.

She let go, all her contact leaving his body, yet her little fingers entwined around his unhurt one. He could see, in the depths of her dark, dark eyes, something that spurned unease in him.

He could not support her, if he chose to love her. He could not stand by her, if he chose to love her. He could not let her live normally, if he chose to love her. He would endanger her- he would choke her with the instabilities that were purging through his veins. Her innocence- her naiveté and her pretty little face would clatter and crumple.

He would not risk it.

But… he could stop. He could tuck all that under his shoulder and walk away. The case would be open, but the Connoisseur would always keep his own record clean. Then… maybe then… he could see things the way she saw them. Maybe then… he could feel this… this _security_ and _difference_ that he felt while she was there for as long as he wanted- for as long as he could get.

His hands shook.

No.

He didn't want to snap one day and drag her limp, paralyzed body with the crazed urge that he knew would pump at him. For years he'd been carving out masks as much as he wanted- his thirst quenched, no matter how bitter the water had been.

"I'm going downstairs," he said brusquely, "to the nurse."

"I'll come with you!" she chirped, already skipping towards the door to open it, "I'll let the cleaners come in at so they could clear up the mess. No harm done, right? Well… except your hand."

"It's alright, I just…" he felt his throat tighten and he flexed his bleeding fingers.

He cleared his throat and walked ahead of her, out of the partially demolished lab. He felt her hand on his back, gently leading him away from the room as though he needed guidance.

Maybe he did need guidance.

He snorted to himself. What guidance was there for someone who was blind to all the lights? But, looking at her small form next to him, he felt something soften inside him. Something… tender and comforting soothe his muscles.

She would be a beauty he could never capture…

He swallowed.

It wasn't a challenge- she wasn't the one.

She was _different_.


End file.
